Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I make a grunting noise. Thanks, Mrs. Peonta.
“Okay, I’ll ask again,” I say, swallowing the spring roll (fried, delicious). “Why are you here?”
“I told you. It’s in a professional capacity.”
I lift my wineglass and give a pointed look at the takeout bag.
“Doesn’t the SEC have working dinners?”
“They do, it’s just . . .” I take a breath and try to center myself. “This doesn’t feel like one of those. I’m hyperaware that I’m in my yoga pants, that you’re not wearing a tie for the first time ever. That you brought me food, and there’s wine involved. That you’re in my home, and I have bras draped over my shower rack—”
He turns away, already marching toward the bathroom.
“Hey!” I say, realizing his plan. “I didn’t mean—”
I’m too late. He’s already stuck his head into the bathroom. “Very practical, Ms. McKenzie,” he says from inside. Then he turns around and comes back down the hall, rolling his eyes. “Good Lord, woman, you’re too young and hot for this frumpy shit. Haven’t you ever heard of lace?”
I rub my temple. “So you’ve seen my underwear. I hope it was satisfying, because it’s the only time you’re going to see them.”
“We’ll see,” he says, returning to the kitchen. “Grab a couple of plates. We can talk while we eat.”
“Ian.” I wait until he looks at me. “You really should leave. The case isn’t wrapped yet.”
His playful gaze turns serious. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“I can’t—”
“Just hear me out. Please. If you still want me to leave after we’re done eating, I’ll go.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he takes a step closer, his face earnest as he grabs my hands.
“Put yourself in my shoes. For one second, switch this around. Pretend that you’re the one being accused of breaking the law. All you know is that you didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s your word against some mystery person who’s lying. What do you do? Do you let someone ruin your life—either put you in jail or have the career that you love ripped out from under you—or would you do everything possible to try and stop it?”
He’s breathing hard, his blue eyes urgent and pleading. And just like Friday night when he spilled his drink, I see him not as a spoiled, womanizing, amoral playboy but as a man—a person.
One who might very well be innocent.
“Let’s work together on this, Lara, please. We’ll get answers faster that way.” He rests his forehead on mine, just for a moment, and it’s his vulnerability that breaks me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “But Ian, if you stay, you can’t tell anyone. Definitely not your lawyer. Not even your besties.”
He pulls back, and one corner of his mouth lifts. “My besties?”
“Matt Cannon and Kennedy Dawson. Even Kate and Sabrina. No one can know.”
“Can I tell Matt and Kennedy you called them my besties? They’ll love it.”
“I’m serious, Ian.” I drop my gaze and give voice to my biggest fear. “I could lose my job.”
He squeezes my hands. “Lara, you can trust me.”
I risk lifting my gaze. It’s a mistake because he’s close—very close. And I’ve never wanted something as badly as I want to know if Ian’s as good a kisser as I think he is.
I pull out of his grasp and take a quick step back, clearing my throat and turning to get us plates.
“Hope you like Thai food,” he says, opening the rest of the cartons and acting as if nothing just happened. “I got a little of everything.”
“Wow, literally everything,” I say, hungrily taking in the multiple options. He takes both plates from me to bring to the table, and I grab a stack of paper napkins and the wine bottle.
He shrugs off his suit jacket, and we settle at the table, and though I’m braced for an intense wave of awkwardness, there’s none. Well, other than the fact that I’m very aware that his suit probably costs more than my monthly rent.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” I spear a piece of chicken and plop it into my mouth.
Ian takes a deep breath, and instead of eating his food, he picks up his wineglass and leans back in his chair. “Evidence.”
I pause midchew. “I really can’t say—”
“You don’t have any, do you?” he challenges.
My hand goes still in the process of shoveling in pad Thai, and the knot I’ve had in my stomach ever since my conversation with Steve tightens.
My boss has always been opinionated, but he’s also seemed fair. In fact, he’s the one who regularly reminds me that there are two sides to every story, and our job is to figure out which side is telling the truth.
The fact that Steve won’t even consider the possibility that Ian is telling the truth bothers me. A lot. And yet, conceding that to Ian is a direct violation of my job as the investigator.